


A Good Day

by katabasis_s



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Description of blood, a little gross but just depends on you, minho's day at school, nose bleed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 11:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30105555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katabasis_s/pseuds/katabasis_s
Summary: Minho has anxiety. Some days just aren't as convincing as others.
Kudos: 5





	A Good Day

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a short story about Minho going through a bad week and getting a nose bleed cause of it. i wrote this a while ago and it may or may not be based off when i got blood on the wall cause i had to run at such a pace and ended up having to cover it up with some acrylic paint aksdjsk
> 
> _(@p stop reading) ___

a good day

When Minho got stressed, he would usually cry.

He would cry and cry and until all the salts and tears excreted his body and left him in a pitiful dehydrated exhaustion, allowing him to succumb to the relief of sleep. 

Minho hated crying.

He’d wake up, look at the time realising it’s only 5 am and still had another hour before his alarm went off to get ready for school. 

He’d lay his back against the wall by his bed and slowly bring his bare knees to his chest, head empty. He’d then gulp and take in the rising sun seeping through his half closed shutters, luminously grazing over the crinkled covers of his bed. The light would barely cast over his messy desk filled with homework and studies he had yet to complete. Mockingly exclaiming at what a mess his room was. Nothing but a mess.

He’d then look down to the scars on his hips, hugging his knees even closer and trying to take deep controlled breaths.

No matter how hard he tried, the exhaustion would always win, the tiredness would always consume him. Then there would be the voiceless, salty water seeping over his swollen cheeks and latching over his withering lips.

Minho was pathetic.

Once his alarm went off, he’d stop, get changed, force himself to eat something, and catch his bus to get to school.

Some days weren’t even bad.

They just felt bad.

Minho just perceived them as bad.

It might’ve been an amazing day. But Minho's brain wouldn’t let it be. Minho's brain picked out all the small things, and swelled them up.

Minho’s brain made the small things large, prominent.

Told Minho all the things wrong with him.

Told Minho how everyone stared at him. How someone pointed out his messy hair, how people had stared as he sat alone by the wall during lunch hoping no one would go near him, or ask why he was alone.

Told Minho how he couldn’t even formulate sentences out loud with a brain full of them.

Minho’s brain was stupid. He hated it. He hated how it’d make his chest squeeze and breath quicken. How his brain would make him sleep when he should’ve been studying, doing his homework. He should’ve been doing his homework.

He hated how his body told him to sleep, when he didn’t even need it.

Minho was so self absorbed.

No one cared enough to look at him. No one cared enough to comment on his disheveled attire or the deep bags under his eyes.

No one cared.

And Minho hated himself for it.

He had had a nice day. He had a whole half day of art, he painted and drew in peace engulfed in his new project. He even talked to his art teacher for a bit, discussing a few artists who ‘changed their worlds’ before she had to go back to her desk.

Minho was grateful.

The boy he sat next to even said hello as he approached his seat after a whole week of being deprived of art. And Minho even said hello back.

It was a good day because for the first time in a while he felt proud of himself. His artwork was coming together, he had fun putting together a new sketchbook for it and overall felt a lot more refreshed.

He went home, a soft smile on his face as he looked through the fridge, looking for something to eat.

There wasn’t much, so he settled on cereal, he never usually had lunch at school anyway. It was too intimidating. 

He smiled when he finished, with his stomach growling in hunger.

He then went to sleep for a little, tired from his long day of school.

He woke up a while later, settling on the floor with his back resting against his bed and reading a book he had been quite invested in lately.

He read for quite some time, exclaiming quietly to himself at certain parts and smiling to himself. 

But even on the good days, the smiles would be forced.

Soon he wasn’t reading anymore, but staring blindly as he flipped page after page, losing track of time- losing the plot of the story. 

Minho felt lost.

The words scattered, and his fingers trembled before he could even begin to acknowledge his distorted thoughts.

Then his vision would blur. And he’d give out soft, pitiful tears. He didn’t know why, but he gave up trying to stop. Silently, he continued to read despite the words not going into his head. Incoherent thoughts slipped over the paper.

Minho felt lonely.

His lips would tremble and frown, whole body beginning to shake as the tears turned more violent.

He continued to read, quietly shaking and trying not to make any noises since his brother was just in the room next to him. He didn’t want his brother to think he was being stupid again. To call him pathetic.

Minho loved his brother. He got good grades, made many friends. And Minho loved him because he had worked hard for every single one of those things.

He worked harder than Minho.

Minho didn’t try hard enough.

He felt the pooled pulsation thick and running inside his nose and then dread filled his body, bringing a halt to his crying and sending blood to splatter onto the floor. Luckily he moved before it could hit his cherished book and hastily brought his hands under his nose to catch the blood.

He stood up with a soft laugh, thinking about how quickly that dread had stopped his crying. He ran to the bathroom a little messily since he could hear some blood still splatter to the ground behind him.  
He got to the sink and dropped the mass of bright liquid filling his palms.

It was amazing how much blood came out of him. Amazing how when putting his hands out again, it filled just as quickly with more blood.

It was heavy, thick and turned darker after some time. He ran the tap and desperately rubbed his hands over the sides of the sink where blood was splattered but ended up leaving a watery canvas of light pink.

He soon realised how gross and messy he was being, and turned to grab some toilet roll to dry the sides of the ceramic and to clean his face.

Minho was disgusting.

He could’ve kept the tissue against his nose but he wanted to see how much more would come out.

He put his hands out again, blood staining down his wrists and slipping through the cracks of his fingers. Looking down into the red he could make out his eerie reflection, and how small ripples distorted his face with every drop of blood.

He looked up to the mirror, intrigued. He watched as the blood dribbled down his chin like drool as well as falling thick upon his cupid bow, then slowly staining his lips into a bright shade.

He smiled crookedly. His hands still holding blood and sink stained heavily. Turning on the tap again it seemed as though he had committed a crime. He childishly fantasised a murder in an attempt to ease his mind, just a random person, no one in particular, all whilst the bleeding stopped and he carefully cleaned the floor and counter.

He looked at himself in the mirror again and as he fantasised he brought two hands to his neck and squeezed. He looked silly, with blood. But he decided he liked it.

When his body began to shake and he felt overwhelmingly gross again, he put his hands back under the tap.

It was a good day.


End file.
